NYT Bestselling author, friend of the blog, husband of the awesome Mallory, my former neighbor, and overall good guy Wiley Cash has a message on the facebook thing:
Here’s how you’re probably feeling if you voted for this president:
You leased a brand new American-made Cadillac on Nov. 8. So what if it’s a gaudy gold with gold rims, gold trim, gold leather interior with gold flakes in the wood grain. Who cares? It’s big and powerful and the engine is really loud.
In December a neighbor comes over and points out that your rims are made of plastic. You didn’t realize it until now, but so what? That guy’s just jealous. This is still a really nice car. You know a few Obama voters with plastic rims, so they’re no better than you. And then you discover that the leather is actually pleather, but you decide not to tell anyone.
On January 20 you detail the Cadillac and drive it through town, revving the engine and blaring the radio: Toby Keith, Three Doors Down. It’s the proudest day of your life. That night you lay in bed and hope you made the right decision. But this car speaks to the American experience, right? It’s the car of middle America. This car is all about the people.
By the middle of the following week you accidentally scratch the wood grain on the interior and discover that it’s made of plastic too. Those gold flakes are actually foil. You take it back to the dealership and rant and rave about how you paid too steep a price for your lease, but you’re stuck with it for four years. You can’t get your money back unless you take the dealership to court for selling you an inferior product, and there’s no way you’re going to court: Court is for liberal snowflakes.
You pull into the driveway, and there’s that nosy neighbor again. He says the engine doesn’t sound so good. There may be a loose belt or perhaps a screw is loose somewhere under the hood. You’re embarrassed. It’s all becoming clear to you, but you don’t want this guy to know you made the wrong decision. You tell him to get off your lawn. You know a few Clinton supporters who drive cars with loud mufflers. He needs to mind his own business and support your car. He’s not acting like an American.
The Cadillac slowly begins to fall apart over the next month. You’re six weeks into your lease when you open the glove compartment and pull out the owner’s manual. You’ve got questions about how to repair all the things that have gone wrong with it.
But you find that you can’t read the manual. It’s in Russian. “наслаждаться Кадиллак,” it says.
No sympathy. You were warned.